The Runaway
by BlufordFan
Summary: A short story based off of "Brothers in Arms" in the Bluford Series


The sun has set and it's disappearing over the hills in the distance. I see my shadow stretched out in front of me. I feel the cool breeze against the skin of my cheek, I feel the warmth of the setting sun on my face, and in the distance I can see the palm trees that line the busy streets of Los Angeles. Most people would think this is paradise.

It ain't.

I'm sitting on the cracked concrete steps that lead up to my house. The lawn hasn't been cut in months and the weeds have grown out of control, choking the grass. Crumpled beer cans and broken glass litter the ground. My backpack feels heavy and I shift uncomfortably as my belongings and my thoughts weigh me down.

I'm fourteen. I just finished my first year at Bluford High and I'm not sure it mattered, because no one knows me. I guess I can't blame them—I didn't make it to school much. On Thursdays and Fridays, my buddy Manuel would pick me up and I would just cruise around the barrio with my crew.

I hear screaming again. There's always something going on in the house. Either my mom's screaming at me or she's screaming at her boyfriend. Sometimes her boyfriend comes home drunk and that's when I know to lock my door, put on my headphones, and turn on the music real loud.

Sometimes it doesn't matter. I can hear them anyway.

This time it's really loud. I hear him yelling and I hear her yelling back. He's drunk. Maybe she's drunk too. I shift the straps on my backpack. The house is the last place I want to go right now. I hear glass shatter.

I can't take this anymore. I get up off the concrete, wipe the grit off my hands and start heading down Alameda. They can deal with their own problems.

It's dark now and the only light I have is the orange glow from street lamps. I duck into an alley and figure it'll do for the night. I ain't scared of nothing. Anyone steels me, I steel them right back. I take my bag off and spread out a towel on the floor. The alley smells faintly like rotting garbage and out of the corner of my eye, I think I see a dead rat in a corner. Whatever. I lie down and go to sleep. I'll figure out where I'm going tomorrow.

ERNNNNN!!!

The shriek of a siren wakes me up from my sleep. A cop car screeches to a stop to the curb right next to where I am. The doors quickly open and two huge cops start to get out.

I jump up and grab my bag. I take off running back into the alley.

"Stop! Stop right where you are! Put your hands up!" The cops are yelling at me but, I'm not stopping. If they catch me, I'm either going home or to child services and I ain't doing either of those. I'm also carrying a few things that I "borrowed" from some stores in the area. I keep going.

The cops realize I'm not stopping and they start running after me. They think they're faster and stronger, but I know this area like it's the back of my hand. I cut left on Flowers and head towards 15th. I know I can lose them on 15th

My heart is pounding and I feel the blood running through my veins. I hear the cops' footsteps behind me, they can't be more than a few blocks away. I pick up my pace. My throat is dry and scratchy and my eyes are starting to get watery.

Then it happens. I don't see a pothole and my foot goes down and I go flying across the pavement. I roll to a stop and try to get up, but my ankle's hurting like crazy. I look at my hands. They're scraped up and blood is dripping from a big cut on my leg. I see the cops turn the corner. They know I can't move. I try to get up one more time but my ankle feels like someone's stuck a knife through it. I fall to the ground.

"Thought you could get away, didn't you?" One of the cops is huffing and puffing and trying to catch his breath. He takes out a pair of handcuffs.

"You gotta be some kind of stupid, kid. We're going to take you into the station for resisting arrest. Not to mention all the other things you have against you. We got a call from the grocery store owner on 14th and—" The bigger cop grabs my bag and pours it on the street. Out fell an MP3 player, a pair of headphones, some boxes of granola bars, and a few magazines. I didn't buy any of it. "It looks like we've solved some of the problem. He gave a pretty good description of you."

I didn't say anything. The bigger cop cuffed my wrists together so tight it pinched my skin. I felt blood. He pushed my head down under the car roof as he shoved me into the back of the cop car. The car doors slam shut and we're off to jail.

They've taken my belt, my bag, and my wallet. They've taken even the change I had in my pocket. My fingers are still a little black from the fingerprinting ink. I'm sitting in the waiting room, waiting for my assignment and the big cop's sitting across from me.

"How old are you, anyway? What are you doing sleeping on the streets?"

I don't reply. I'm not much for talking.

"Come on, kid. You're in a lot of trouble. You might as well talk a little bit about how you got where we found you."

He wants me to start talking. He wants me to think he's my buddy, that he can make it okay. I know there isn't much he can do. If the owner wants to press charges, that's his business, the cop's just the one who brings me in.

The cop shrugs his shoulders and stretches his arms behind his head. He sits there for a few minutes before shrugging his shoulders and letting out a big sigh. He gets up, picks up his cup of coffee and heads back to his desk where he picks up a phone. And I'm alone again.

I sit there thinking. How bad could it be? The shop is around the corner where I live and while I never stole anything major, I did steal pretty often. Whenever I was in there, maybe once a week, I'd lift a candy bar or something. Would the owner press charges? Would it be enough to put me in jail? How would I pay him back? I didn't have a job, I didn't have any money. And my mom sure didn't have either of those.

"Hey, kid." The cop interrupted my thoughts. "You got one phone call, make it quick."

Standing at the phone, I had no idea who to call. I didn't want to call home, my mom would just come here and scream at me some more, which is the last thing I needed. My siblings were all younger than me and then I thought of it. I'd call Manuel, he'd swing by and bust me out of this joint. I dialed the number. It rang twice and then he picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey Manuel, it's Martin."

"Martin, man, what's up?"

"Hey, I got into some trouble with the cops. I need you to come here and bail me out."

"What? What'd you do?"

"Listen, I don't have much time. It's something about stealing from the store on 17th. Look man, I need you. I don't have anyone else."

"I don't know man…"

"Come on, Manuel! I can't call anyone else. You're all I've got!"

"Look, Martin, if I set foot in a police station there's all kinds of things they could pin on me."

"Manuel, man! What about our crew! We don't leave each other behind!"

"Hey, Martin, I'm sorry. A man's gotta look out for himself. You're on your own man."

"Manuel! Manuel!"

The receiver was dead. He had hung up.

And for the first time in a long time, I realized I didn't have anyone. I didn't have a home to go to, my boys wouldn't risk coming to the station, and it was just me and myself, alone. I let the receiver drop from my hand. The cop came behind me.

"Contacted anyone? A family member perhaps?"

"No, I couldn't get anyone."

"Well, if you can't get in touch with anyone, we'll need to call child services down here so you can have an advocate."

"No! Please, no. Not child services. I…I can't."

The officer looked at me. It was a look of confusion, but I think he had to feel bad for me, a poor 14 year old he had found sleeping on the street.

"Okay," he spoke slowly. "If I gave you another phone call, can you get in touch with someone?"

I looked at my shoes. I shrugged.

"Look, kid, I can give you one more call, about five minutes. You think long and hard about who you can get in touch with and if you still can't find anyone, I'm going to need to call child services, okay?"

I didn't say anything.

"Okay? Kid, I need you to answer me."

"Okay," I mumbled.

"Alright. I'll be back in five." He left.

My mind scrambled. I couldn't go into child services, that was the last thing I wanted. I thought of everyone I knew. All the other boys in the crew would be just like Manuel. I couldn't waste the call on them. I still couldn't call my mom.

Then it hit me. On the first day of school, Mr. Rosa, the math teacher had put his number on the board and left it there. It was on the board in class every day, in the upper left hand corner. I didn't know him at all, but I'm good with numbers and he always seemed to smile at me in the hallway. I did well on his tests, too, when I was actually in class. Maybe that's why I remembered his number. He looked like a good guy. And let's be honest, it wasn't like I had any options. I picked up the receiver and dialed the number.

"Hello?"

I froze. What was I supposed to say? I was calling my math teacher who probably didn't even remember me.

"Hello? Rosa residence."

I thought about hanging up. But something pushed me to just say something.

"Hello? Mr. Rosa?"

"Yes, this is Mr. Rosa from Bluford High. Is this a student calling?"

"Um, yes."

There was a pause and then I realized he was waiting for me to say my name.

"This is, uh, this is Martin. Martin Luna. I was in Algebra class."

"Martin! Good to hear from you. What can I do for you today?"

What was I supposed to say? Mr. Rosa, I'm in jail and I need you to bail me out? This was stupid, I should never have called.

"Um, well Mr. Rosa, I'm sorry to have called. I must've dialed the wrong number, I'm sorry for wasting your time." I was about to hang up when I heard him speak.

"Wait, Martin!" He was laughing. "How could you have dialed the wrong number if you asked for me?"

I smacked my hand against my forehead. Duh.

"Um, right," I muttered.

"Alright, Martin. Why don't you tell me what's up. I'm always glad to help my students."

"Well, Mr. Rosa, I'm in a little trouble…" I let my voice trail off.

"I see. What kind of trouble?"

"Well, I don't have long to talk. This is my only phone call."

"I see. Alright, I'll be there in twenty minutes. Are you on 23rd?"

How did he know?

"Um, yes, actually, I am."

"Alright, see you soon."

He hung up, leaving me with my thoughts.

*

Within an hour, I was back at Bluford High. It was a Thursday afternoon and some students were still hanging out around the lockers and most of the teachers were cleaning up their rooms and getting ready to go home. Mr. Rosa had paid my bail—he didn't tell me how much it was—and now we were sitting in the classroom, facing each other.

"So what's your story, Martin? Cops said it was mostly shoplifting charges—we'll talk to the store owner tomorrow and see if we can arrange something."

"Mr. Rosa, how—why—" I was sputtering. "Why did you do what you just did?"

Mr. Rosa raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, Martin?"

"Coming to the jail, picking me up, paying the bail—you didn't need to do all that."

Mr. Rosa smiled a sad smile. "No, Martin, I didn't."

"So, why?"

Mr. Rosa shrugged his shoulders. "Martin, I'm a teacher. You know what that means, don't you?"

I looked at him blankly.

"Martin, I'm a teacher. Which means that students don't usually call me on Thursday afternoon. And I know that if you were you in jail and you had to call me, it means you didn't have anyone else."

I sat there quietly.

"So, Martin. To answer your question, I did it because I knew I was your last shot. And I'm okay with that. You're a smart kid. Way too smart to be spending time sleeping on the streets and being booked for petty shoplifting. So now, why don't you tell me why you had to call me? What's your story?"

I looked at him. Mr. Rosa had honest eyes and I could tell that he believed every word he had just said. So I told him. I told him about mom and I told him about mom's boyfriend and how life at home was awful and how I shoplifted because it gave me a thrill and how Manuel and my crew had abandoned me when I needed them most. And I told him of how I decided to run away to get away from it all and how disgraceful and embarrassing it felt, getting myself fingerprinted and booked for all the wrong things that I had done. And at the end of it, I couldn't believe it, but I felt better. But I had one more question for him.

"Mr. Rosa, how did you know I was in the jail on 23rd?"

Mr. Rosa chuckled softly and he stood up and walked to his bulletin boards to begin putting up some examples of student work.

"Martin, I grew up here. I graduated from Bluford, I was the class of 2000 before I went to USC to learn how to be a teacher."

He was now stapling papers to the board and I noticed for the first time that he had a large scar on his left arm running from his wrist to his elbow.

"I know these neighborhoods. This was my home. And Martin, you just told me your story, right?"

"Right."

He looked at me and smiled. "Well, everyone has their own story. Now, why don't you come on over here and give me a hand with these papers. They won't put themselves up. Bring the other stapler while you're at it." He turned around and continued with the bulletin board.

I looked across the room. It was surprisingly peaceful, after school hours. I heard laughter in the halls, and the faint sound of a locker closing. I heard footsteps as teachers walked from room to room and I heard the sound of students piling books into their bookbags. I stood up, picked up the stapler from Mr. Rosa's desk, and walked over to the bulletin board.


End file.
